The Unnamed Daughter Of Apocrypha
by SolarisAce
Summary: Almost two centuries ago, a Nord woman was found dying on the southern shore of Solstheim during the Red Year by none other than the Daedric prince of knowledge, Hermaeus Mora. Having pledged herself to eternal service, she eventually came to serve his self-proclaimed champion, Lord Miraak. But Hermaeus Mora has greater plans for her, for she was his Daughter of Apocrypha.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Been too long, all. To those of you who are following Of Legends, know that I haven't abandoned the story, but I am indeed suffering an extreme long-term case of writer's block on that one and several of my other stories. It's worse now that a new semester has started and I finally have an idea on what to do with my life.**

 **That being said, I've decided to post this for now as a small spot of fun. I've taken inspiration after taking a lot of mods as well as playing a multitude of other games besides Skyrim. As of now, I'm just posting a prologue, just to see how many eyes find interest in this.**

* * *

'Twas close to two centuries ago, during the Red Year, that I had been found, enveloped in ash, scorched to muscle and bone, naked and dying along the southern shores of Solstheim. With no recollection of my name, I saw a black book not far from where I lay. My weakened body was heavy to carry, but I had managed to drag myself towards the enchanting book.

My body gave way to weakness as I pushed the pages open. I had been sure that death would take me then and there. But then, several things, wet, warm, and slimy in feel, slithered around my body and tugged at me. The book had come alive, and had been dragging me into it.

When next I'd woke, the same tentacles had been draped over my naked body. I lie in a pool of oily black ink, my skin burning on contact. As I looked up to the dark skies of the strange place, I saw the single eye peeping out of a writhing mass of tentacles.

'Twas the chosen form of the being that would become my liege.

Lord Hermaeus Mora...

"It seems a cruel fate has befallen you, mortal," he had said slowly, soothingly. "To be so close to death must be such a dreadful thing. But I have found you, mortal, and preserved your life. That makes you indebted to me. But, I know not your name, mortal."

"I remember it not," I had said.

"Just as well," he had replied. "One who serves me need not be named. Welcome to Apocrypha, where all knowledge is hoarded. I am Hermaeus Mora, seer of the unseen, and knower of the unknown."

The tentacles hugged against my body, dragging me further into the oil I lay in. "From now until the end of time, you shall be my Daughter, and you shall be a guardian of this realm. You shall be my first Daughter of Apocrypha, and in time, you shall understand and be endowed with my wisdom."

I had been dragged under, his whispers of fatherly kinship echoing in my mind. I felt my mortality...my weak, mortal, scarred and ash-covered skin sizzle away to that like a newborn baby. The tentacles, hugged at me, forcing air out, forcing me to breath the waters of Apocrypha. In minutes, I accepted my fate. I accepted Hermaeus Mora as my liege, my Lord.

In time, I would even come refer to him as "Father". My liege, even one of _your_ power and wisdom cannot fathom how proud I was to be called your "Daughter".

The warm oil around me had thickened, much of it clinging to my body. The warmth had lulled me to sleep. 'Twas the start of my ageless service to my Father.

As the years passed, I would emerge from my death-like slumber to guard the halls of my new home: Apocrypha. Sometimes, I would even venture away to deal with mortals courageous or foolish enough to seek out my Father.

Such did not last for eternity, however...

'Twas an unusual occurrence within the last century: I had awoken from my slumber as per usual, but I had not been called by Hermaeus Mora. Instead, what had lain before the pool I slept in was a tall man, robed and masked, speaking ominous words. I had known what they were—words from the Language of the Dragons—but not what they meant.

He had introduced himself as "Lord Miraak", champion of Hermaeus Mora, and True Dragonborn. He had spoken as though he were the direct enforcer of Father's will, and spoke of his desire to walk Tamriel again and serve our Father. Saddened as I'd been at this turn of events, his words had rung true. I pledged myself to aid his return from Apocrypha.

'Twas not long before Lord Miraak became my Father over Hermaeus Mora, for he spoke nothing but truth in my ears. 'Twas not long before I forgot that it was Hermaeus Mora who pulled me away from death.

I wandered Solstheim over the decade, serving him. Through my voice, he spoke to others and, captivated by his truth, they would begin erecting shrines to him around the All-Maker Stones that dotted the island. 'Twould take several years, perhaps a century, but he would emerge when they are all finished.

Over and over again, his words echoed to them:

 _"Here in my shrine_

 _"That you have forgotten_

 _"Here do you toil_

 _"That you might remember_

 _"By night, you reclaim_

 _"What by day was stolen_

 _"Far from yourselves_

 _"I grow ever near to you_

 _"Your eyes once were blinded._

 _"Now, through me, do you see._

 _"Your hands once were idle._

 _"Now, through them, do I speak._

 _"And when the world shall listen_

 _"And when the world shall see_

 _"And when the world remembers_

 _"That world shall cease to be."_

Now, I slumber once more, until Lord Miraak calls upon me once more.

* * *

 **A/N: Aesthetically, I took reference from a character from Tekken Tag Tournament 2. Namely Unknown; I felt that with a color swap and the addition of a servile motivation to a Daedric Prince, she'd fit right in with Apocrypha. As for what I plan to do if I continue with this...there's any number of things I can do.**

 **Rate and Review. And see you all in Apocrypha.**


	2. Chapter 1: Life as a Servant is Good

**A/N: Okay, even having one follow on this story based on the prologue alone is surprising. As a result of this, I've decided to post this chapter if for no other reason than to establish characterization. If I haven't mentioned it, the semester is keeping me occupied, and I'm suffering writer's block on my primary projects. Read and Review, or be sentenced to Oblivion.**

 **Enjoy.**

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A lone hand reached skyward from the pool of oil, Seekers nearby giving their equivalent of a bow to the being about to emerge. The hand sunk back in and, little by little, the being emerged, its lithe figure prominent against the light given off from the floating lamps nearby. The figure hugged itself, as if it was shivering.

The oil gradually slid and dripped off the very feminine being's form, revealing a woman of near-flawless skin and glowing gold irises. Some of the oil hardened and clung to the woman's skin, just barely preserving her modesty, not that she saw any shame in a lack of modesty; it was, after all, a _mortal_ concept.

But she was no longer mortal, so such a concept was ultimately beneath her. That she even covered _this_ much meant little beyond courtesy.

The Nord woman then swayed and revealed herself, her captivating beauty able to pique the lust of all but the very strongest-willed among mortals. The Unknown, The Unnamed One...there were several names for the sole Daughter of Apocrypha. Recent texts that emerged during the last century refer to her simply as "The Daughter".

The Daughter looked to the skies, knowing exactly why she was stirred from her two-year slumber: Lord Miraak had need of her services. Perhaps he merely wished for her to check upon the progress of the shrines or his temple, or perhaps he desired her service in undermining the wills of yet more people of Solstheim.

"What is it you desire of me, my Father?" the woman asked, her voice mingling with one of a lower pitch—that similar to Hermaeus Mora.

"Rieklings now inhabit the mead hall of Thirsk and have driven out the fools that lived there," Lord Miraak spoke in her mind. "Their minds are so easy to sway. Go to them, my Daughter, and let my Voice through your own linger in their ears, and direct them to the shrine near the mead hall. This, your Father commands you."

"So you will it, my Father, so it shall be," she said as soon as his sentence was finished, her voice unflinching in its resolve. She was beholden to his will, and so she obeyed without question, no matter how innocuous his commands may seem. She was, after all, nothing more than an extention of his will.

The Daughter crept ever so slowly, her walk having a gait to it, to this area of Apocrypha's book and opened it. The tentacles shot out and wrapped around her, pulling her through and dispensing her upon the floor deep within her Father's temple. There had been a cave near where the Black Book placed her, which led to hidden door that came close to the Beast Stone.

* * *

The cold air nipped at the Daughter's skin, but she felt nothing, nor did it have any ill effect on her. She walked on light feet towards Thirsk, movement like that of a marionette, the snow hardly being depressed under the weight of her body. Nords were already working on the shrine at the stone near the mead hall, so the Daughter didn't understand her Father's logic.

But it was neither her place nor her desire to question Father's wishes, only to obey him. When she got close to the mead hall, a riekling from the tribe that set up there approached her, seemingly unperturbed by the Daughter's near-lack of modesty.

"You...fol...low...me," it said in broken common tongue. "You see...chief."

"Yes," The Daughter simply replied, her demonic voice causing brief alarm in the creature, from which it quickly recovered. She approached the riekling, and it turned to lead her to Thirsk's main hall.

Her striking beauty apparently crossed even the boundry between creature and all others. Even Draugr were momentarily stunned in the past before attempting to kill her. Nearly every riekling's gaze fixed upon her figure. Their lust practically choked the air as each eyed her up and down, and she humored them by twirling in place.

Those who gazed upon felt one of two things: lust, or a sense of forboding. Either way, the Daughter always got what she wanted, either because other were too smittened with her or too frightened by her to refuse.

Many things entered her mind as the Daughter gazed upon the riekling chief. She very well could have used her Father's Voice now, but she felt the need to humor the chief and see what he wanted from her. She may have been Father's arm, but she still had a sense of humor.

Her sense of humor led her to some courier work, from retrieving the tribe's bristleback boar to finding "redgrass" for the tribe. And then came the most intriguing proposition: slaughter the nearby Nords who originally resided in Thirsk.

To do or not to do; that is the question. Either the Wind Stone gets built by some rieklings and Nords, or all of one group. Or rather, all rieklings—the Nords, as well influenced as they can be, are likely to break free sooner or later. They do, after all, stop working at sunrise to returnto their shelter. What would Father have her do?

He said to ensnare the rieklings that had set up residence in Thirsk. He did _not_ say that that the Nords had to be _kept_ alive. Besides, the rieklings here, while not as physically strong, were far more numerous than the Nords near the shoreline. The Daughter agreed to the chief's request, and she decided to move ahead of the rieklings in order to fight the Nords.

She drew the eyes of every Nord on approach, mixed looks of interest, shock, and horror apparent on their faces.

"Shor's bones. Who is this woman?" a man asked.

"Look at her. Isn't she freezing?" another asked.

"What's all that she's covered in?" a woman asked.

"Enough," the lead woman said. "Something is very wrong about her."

"Nords..." the Daughter started, startling them all with her demonic voice. "...you've served Father's purposes nicely, but now death comes."

"What are you going to do!? Kill us with your bare hands!? You don't even have a weapon!" one of the Nords taunted, to the disapproval of the others.

The Daughter laughed before lunging forward, all Nords scattering save for the fool who dared to try her. When everyone looked, they were horrified to see that the Daughter had ran her arm cleanly through the man's chest.

"I need no weapon, for I am one," she boasted as she eyed the twitching and dying man who was skewered upon her arm. She pulled her arm out forcefully, leaving the man hands and knees on the ground. He looked at the hole in his chest, felt himself grow as cold as the air around him, and then fell dead.

"You bastard! I am Bujold the Intrepid. Tell me who you are, monster, that I might sing of your upcoming defeat at our hands!" the lead Nord said.

"I am The Unnamed One, Unknown, Anonymous..." the Daughter said. "So many names for the right arm of the Daedric prince Hermaeus Mora. I am the one and the only Daughter of Apocrypha. Remember the title well, for 'twill be all you remember in your final seconds."

"D-d-d-d-daedra?" one of the men asked. "Please, we'll leave, just leave the rest of us in peace."

"No," the Daughter said, spreading her out as if shrugging. "As I've said: 'tis your deaths I seek."

Suddenly, when the Daughter extended her hands skyward, pools of black opened up from the ground in the area, with tentacles and acid sprouting from them. A few were impaled on the tentacles, while one was tossed into the air and then bludgeoned to death. And that left just one alive: Bujold the Intrepid, knocked flat on her back, armor sizzling away slowly.

"My friends...my family..." Bujold whimpered at the woman who slowly approached her. "Please, please, please don't kill me. I'll do anything. _Anything_."

"You're called 'Bujold the Intrepid', aren't you? Begging for your life like this, you're unworthy of the title," the Daughter said, half teasing. "You shall die as Bujold the Cowardly, as Bujold the Unworthy."

"What're you-? No, no, no, no, NOOOO!" Bujold screamed as the Daughter drew her hand back and shot it at her neck, hand constricted around her throat.

The Daughter held Bujold in the air as though she weighed nothing. Something could be heard creaking and sizzling; the ink that adorned the Daughter's body slid along her hand and unto Bujold, coming to wrap around her arms and chest. It hugged against her body before loosening, each hug tighter than the last.

The hugs kept tightening and tightening as Bujold was dropped on the ground. But she wasn't being hugged—she was being _crushed_. The skin bruised before being stripped away, the bones fractured before breaking, the broken ribs punctured her lungs as she struggled to breath, and then... _pop_ went the heart.

The ink slid along the ground, away from Bujold's lifeless body and back to the Daughter's own, scaling her legs and relieving her of her complete nudity. The dead Nord lay there with wide open eyes, blood from the mouth and the chest.

"You...you...did this?" the broken language of the chief came through the silence of death.

She turned around, tentacles receding into the ground, bodies sliding off of them, the portals from which the tentacles emerged closing. She had an audience—evidently the entire tribe watched her display.

"The Nords are dead," the Daughter said. "'Twas not what you wanted?"

"You strong," the chief said. "Strong like god. Stronger than chief...you want be chief?"

He had stepped towards her as he said this, even after he saw the results she produced. Such a foolish creature.

The Daughter smirked. Becoming chief of the riekling tribe _along_ with fulfilling Father's wishes? She could not have asked for a greater deal.

"Yes..." the Daughter said, her hand extending down to the chief, strangling him to death. "I _will_ be chief. Fret not, for your tribe will be in _good_ hands."

The chief then stopped breathing, and his heart beat no more. She tossed his body casually like a ragdoll alongside Bujold's. The other rieklings approached as though ready to attack. Instead, every one of them threw their weapons down and fell to their knees before her...all fourty members of the tribe. To them, she was more than their chief; she was their goddess, and she had decreed that their chief was no longer fit to lead the tribe.

The Daughter grinned, her eyes grew brighter as she drew breath to speak...and then Father's Voice came from her lips.

" _Gol...Hah...Dov..._ "

Every riekling around her heard Father's Voice and, captivated by his truth, rose to their feet and walked to the Beast Stone to further erect his shrine. As for the Daughter, she figured a brief reward was in order for her efforts.

* * *

Thirsk was now empty, its riekling residents now permanent workers at Father's shrine The dead chief's throne was surprisingly comfortable.

"It is as you willed, my Father," the Daughter said.

"It is," Father crooned to her. "A pity you slew the Nords, but it will be worth it. You continue to do nothing but make me proud, my Daughter. You may keep the mead hall for yourself—use it as you see fit, but you may wish to return to your slumber. We still have much to do."

"As I see fit, Father?"

"As you see fit, Daughter."

The Daughter grinned as she stood and walked on over to the center fire pit. "My thanks, Father. 'Twill be much like home."

As she raised her hand up, tentacles covered and held the main door shut, and a pool of black ink manifested in the fire, blasting outward and scattering pages everywhere.

What resulted was indeed a throne room, but with the black pool in the center for her to rest in, endless blackness and bottomless pits where the walls would be, floating lamps, pages both scattered on the floor and spiraling around as if in cyclones, and both columns and floors adorned with Daedric runes.

It was her own little pocket within Apocrypha. All-in-all, it would be horrifying to the outsider, but for her, it was a place of rest and haven. It was her home: Apocrypha.

Weary over the events of the day, she stepped into the inky poll of black and sank into it. She inhaled deeply, allowing the wet warmth around her to enter her lungs. She closed her eyes and dreamed her Father's dream yet again, repeating his mantra over and over again.

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 **A/N: in case it wasn't already apparent, the Daughter is not only seriously OP, but fetish fuel all on her own. Let me know what you think.  
**


	3. Chapter 2: Awakening

**A/N: It's not a lot, but I got a few reviews; more than I was expecting, actually. I've taken a look back over the last chapter and noticed several missing words as well as spelling error. Libre Office, the poor man's Word with no spell checking, can be accused for that. In any case, I've got word functioning on my refurbished laptop. FYI, to all you following Of Legends, I'm still suffering writer's block on that.  
**

 **I had this chapter sitting on my hard drive for a while since Chapter 1, so I figured I may as well throw it out there.**

 **You'll also note that in this particular story, should I actually decide to go anywhere with it, the writing and sentence structure quality is like going to be worse than my other stories. That's because I'm not letting my editor take a look at this; she'd kill me if she did.**

 **Please Read & Review, or be sentenced to Oblivion.**

 **Oh, and it goes without saying since Chapter 1: fetish fuel ahoy. Don't like, don't read.  
**

* * *

 _"Awaken..."_

Something echoed in the Daughter's mind, causing her to stir and climb out of her pit of ink. She tried to breath in, only to cough up the ink which had settled in her lungs. She looked around to her redecorated mead hall. Well, former mead hall...nothing to be found in this pocket of Apocrypha save for her throne, her pit, and the loose pages.

The darkness that lay beyond the floating lanterns looked so thick that you could suffocate in it. Waking to the sight of all this really brought a sense of pride over what she had created.

The voice that awakened her, though... It wasn't Father's...it was someone who sounded familiar, but whose identity and name escaped the grasp of her mind, wrapped in darkness and being kept away from her. It urged her over and over to get to her feet and set foot in Mundus again.

She wasn't bound to obey the voice the same way she was to Father, but she felt the need to comply, if for no other reason than to sate her curiosity. She stepped out of her pit after hacking the last of the ink out of her lungs, her body drenched and clung to by it.

The tentacles that had held the door to the mead hall shut peeled away from the door, revealing a giant book that opened to an image of Solsthiem. More exactly, it opened to an image of the mead hall as it appeared from the outside: unchanged, save for the deserted forge and animal pen.

The Daughter of Apocrypha closed her eyes briefly and created a spell that would tear a portal in Mundus that would allow her to return to her haven and back. As of now, she could use it to step outside of Thirsk or appear at any of Father's shrines and his Temple. So, she was going to the Earth Stone on the outskirts of Raven Rock and...commandeer a boat to the mainland.

The voice kept whispering "Helgen" over and over again. The Daughter cast the spell upon the book, and it showed the image of the Earth Stone before sprouting a black void with tentacles emerging out of it. With no hesitation, she stepped through and allowed them to embrace her as the portal closed behind her.

She walked through the tentacles for some time until another portal opened up in front of her that revealed the shrine, and the colony in the distance. As she stepped outside, she noted that it was nighttime, which meant that many of the town's citizens were hard at work erecting the shrine.

"By night, we reclaim..." one of the Dunmer women said in her trance, prompting the Daughter to approach and place her hand upon her shoulder. A few of the other slaves caught sight of her, admiring her and referring to her as "The Master's Child".

"What by day was stolen," the Daughter responded with her sinister voice, prompting a few of the slaves to look her way.

"Far from ourselves," the woman further said.

"He grows ever near to you..." the Daughter responded before letting her shoulder be. She then spent the next few minutes pacing around the shrine, observing the progress, listening and following along with the mantra.

"And when the world shall listen..." said one guard.

"And when the world shall see..." the Breton smith said.

"And when the world remembers..." the Dunmer woman said.

The Daughter than lifted her arms skyward, as though conducting an orchestra. She spoke, and _all_ of the workers joined her with the final line.

"That world...will cease...to be!"

The Daughter lowered her hands, grinning at the sight of the praise Father received. She studied for a few more seconds before moving across town to the docks. Many guards that were still in control of their own minds kept uneasy hands on the hilts of their blades: they all felt a sense of foreboding, not lust.

Not so with the sailors; half the time, they ogled her chest, and the other half they ogled her legs. They never looked her in the eyes...her very golden, borderline glowing eyes. It was for the best—when she had her lips to the captain's ear, she had him around her finger.

"To Skyrim, dear captain, as fast as you can," her vibrant voice flooding his mind. It was like his mind was dipped into water from a hot spring—so warm, so relaxing.

And if he didn't cooperate, she could always use...wait...what was Father's Shout again? She knew that Miraak used her as a medium for his Thu'um, but she couldn't remember the Words. She knew what it did, but she didn't know what any of the script meant.

She didn't need to, fortunately: the captain had already ordered his men to hoist the sails and be ready for the journey. So, she sat, cross-legged, on the starboard railing of the ship.

* * *

Where was the Unnamed One going? That ran through Miraak's mind as his greatest asset got further and further away from Solsthiem, eventually beyond his ability to see through her eyes. It was odd: so close to a century of servitude to him, and this was the first time she actively ignored most of his commands. It was as if she didn't hear him.

Arrogant as he was, Miraak was uncharacteristically worried that something might have gone wrong with his Shout. Also uncharacteristic of him, he had actually started to grow fond of "his Daughter". Truth be told, he planted that idea into her, but he was actually starting her to think of her as such. Or even so much more than that.

If she was actually breaking out of his hold, then how is she managing to...?

 _Of course it is…_

* * *

It was close to midday when they docked at Windhelm, and she could immediately feel eyes on her. There were Argonians everywhere, all of them staring not out of lust or even unease; all of it was shock. It didn't even bother them that she began to walk upon the water's surface—after all, waterwalking spells, while far less common now than in the Third Era, were not unheard of.

She hit the shoreline and took the long trek on foot to Helgen, unperturbed by the snow that kissed against her skin. Her muscles failed to ache with every hill she climbed and descended, nor did she stop for sleep. They were problems for a mortal, but she long left behind her mortality.

At the rate the Daughter walked—by Oblivion, it was more like a saunter—it took nearly a day and a half to get to the mountain pass that separated The Rift from Falkreath Hold. It was nighttime when she was in the pass, and an arrow struck her in the chest, right between her breasts. With a grunt, she fell to the ground, slipping on a few of the pebbles lining the path on her way.

The world went black, and she could smell the scent of two men in the air.

* * *

"Bah. It's just a woman," the Nord bandit said. "Naked. Nothing of value...except her body."

"She's dead, Yngvarr," the other, a Breton, said. "You're the one who shot her. No screaming's going to be coming from her."

"No matter," the Yngvarr said. "She's still warm. Played around in mud, too. Look at what's on her."

His warm, callused hand touched her cool and flawless skin, and he wrapped an arm around her back. Oh, if only the woman could smell the musk on Yngvarr's chest as he pulled her close to him, arousal in his scent.

"What soft skin she has...like a newborn baby," Yngvarr said. "But not when I'm finished. I'm content to share, Lucian."

He wiped at the ink on the woman's skin, ultimately exposing her womanhood before dropping his trousers and proceeding to move in on her. Before he could even enter, she stirred, hacking and coughing.

"By the Eight! She's alive?" Lucian asked.

"Aye. So it would seem," Yngvarr said. "An arrow right next to the heart, and still alive. What a tough wench...I _like_ them tough. So satisfying."

"So, what do you think, wench?" he asked her. "You want to be tough for me?"

"Who are you?" the woman asked in a perfectly normal voice. "Is that…you, my love?"

Heh. She was talking in her sleep, or mistaking him for someone else amidst her delirium. She lost quite a bit of blood—that explained her state of mind. He played along; he didn't mind as long as he got what he wanted.

"Aye. It's me," Yngvarr said. "Are you alright?"

"I…hurt, love. I feel so…cold," she said. "Your kiss…it always _could_ make me forget the pain, and your heat could always make me forget the chill of ice."

The woman panted heavily, spreading her legs as though in rut, her lips practically begging for the man to come close and kiss. Yngvarr noticed a sweet smell coming from her, like an aphrodisiac that heated his blood, and it prompted him to move his face closer to hers, despite his better judgement telling him not to.

"Take it away," she whimpered. "I beg you, take it away."

"Hush now, my dearest wench. I promise, you'll forget all your pain," he murmured in her face, before planting his open mouth against hers, his hands fondling at the woman's breasts, and his hips moved slowly towards hers. He felt her one of her hands cupping the back of his head and another resting on his shoulder.

Their kiss was deep and full of passion, and she seemed to radiate heat that wasn't there before. Her chest was extremely hot, almost inhumanly so, but Yngvarr paid it no heed. He had just barely dipped into her when he gagged on something wet, thick, and hot that had entered his mouth. Then it proceeded down his throat and into his lungs.

Yngvarr struggled to break free, but the woman was far stronger than she looked, forcing more and more of that stuff down his throat until he could fit no more. Then she pushed him away and let him suffer. Pain tore through his body, as if he was being digested and dissolved from within. He tried to scream, but with no air able to fill his lungs, his tongue fluttered in vain.

Something had risen from her stomach and up her throat, burning and sizzling and viscous. Hands against the back of the man's head and forcing his face tighter against her own, the Daughter ejected the black contents from her stomach right down his throat, not letting go until she was spent.

The Daughter pushed herself off the ground and giggled, the corrosive ink trailing her chin. That had been something she wanted to try out for decades after "studying" the minions of Peryite that wandered onto Solstheim. "Vile Vapor", they called it. Just what she'd expect from the Daedric Prince of pestilence. She was happy not to be disappointed at the spectacle before her.

But the Daughter added a twist: within all that ink emerged the tentacles that were associated with Apocrypha. The tendrils emerged from the bandit's mouth and pushed outwardly from within his body. In fact, it was by her craft that Father's Lurkers became able to use such a technique—after a fashion, the Lurkers were _her_ children.

Placing her hand on the arrow shaft, she pulled the arrow out messily, and with no sign of pain over the act. Then, the Daughter turned the rapist around to face her, his gaze solidly fixated on her face as she settled a disturbingly gentle hand on his rapidly dissolving cheek.

"Why do you leave me, my love? Won't you help me forget my pain?" she asked mockingly, her voice regaining its demonic echo. The Daughter pulled him further towards her, forcing his chest tightly against her bare breasts. Then her arm wrapped around his waist and forced his hips closer against hers.

"Kiss me _again_! Make _love_ to me! Take it all away!" she taunted in mock orgasm, her lips upturned, making it abundantly clear that she saw causing him this level of anguish as some type of game. She held him like this until she felt his chest give way to the acid, and then his throat followed suit.

Finally, after much painful suffering, the Daughter let the bandit's body slip free of her arms and collapse to the ground, tentacles writhing out of his mouth, throat, and chest as they had all but sizzled away. The Daughter then turned to look at the would-be rapist's partner, her dark smile not subsiding.

"W-what manner of being are y-y-you?" the bandit asked.

"I? I was mortal once, but no more. I am a daughter of the Daedra; a woman free of her mortal bonds. A being beyond your ability to kill," the Daughter introduced as she suggestively fingered her rapidly healing arrow wound. Her blood was a _very_ dark shade of red—almost black, in fact—and far thicker than one would expect mortal blood to be.

"I'm also a being not to be toyed with, as your _friend_ so foolishly tried," she giggled in amusement. "If you are... _wise_...you shall leave my sight. Keep my existence a secret...if you so desire. Or you may...spread the word and propagate fear. It matters not which you do, mortal. You are not worth my time."

With a bare finger, the Daughter wiped the streak of acid off of her chin and ran her tongue along it as the ink that covered her body reformed itself to cover what the dead one had exposed.

"But of course…if _you_ wish to be my 'lover', then I have no qualms against it," she grinned.

The remaining bandit slipped on the pebbles and landed firmly on his rump before crawling away on hands and knees. Mere seconds later, he was in a full sprint, clearly not wanting to share the fate of his partner. The Daughter smiled in pleasure over the fear she instilled.

Leaving the dead bandit's body in the middle of the pathway, the Daughter of Apocrypha continued along to her destination.


	4. Chapter 3: The Ultimate Riches

**A/N: Okay, so this story has seen just enough popularity to warrant another chapter. Semester is winding down, but there seems to be no end to my writer's block regarding Of Legends in sight. Still, this and chapter 4 are done, but the latter needs refining. I've decided to play something for a subtle laugh-you'll know it when you read it.  
**

 **Read and review, or wander the stacks of Apocrypha for eternity.**

 **As usual, The Daughter of Apocrypha being who she is, be wary for fetish fuel. Don't like, don't read.**

* * *

 **Waking Dreams, Apocrypha**

 **70 years ago**

 _She stood before Miraak, his Words of Power flooding through her being over and over again. This woman had become his old liege's Daughter of Apocrypha. She was the only other mortal that Hermaeus Mora ever took into his fold, which gave her a level of uniqueness. And that uniqueness would prove useful to his plans._

" _Do you know how you came to my service, Daughter?" Miraak asked her._

" _More than a century ago, I was dying in the midst of the eruption of Red Mountain. Flesh and muscle stripped towards bone, 'twas only by finding one of the books Hermaeus Mora that I survived," she answered._

 _Miraak lay a hand on her shoulder tenderly from behind and drew himself close to her ear. "No, it was not Hermaeus Mora who saved you from death…"_

" _Gol Hah Dov…" he whispered into her mind. "It was me. I rescued you from your death. I rescued you from a lack of purpose. Hermaeus Mora was an invention of your own mind; he never existed. I'm all there ever was. Do you remember now?"_

 _The Daughter's eyes widened, her will easily accepting his statement as truth. "Indeed. Forgive me for forgetting, milord. I remember pledging myself to your eternal service—for over a century I served you. For over a century, I sought to earn your affection. I obeyed for so long…and then I called you 'Father', Lord Miraak."_

" _Father, is it?" Miraak asked rhetorically. That wasn't a bad thing to be seen as; good children obeyed their parents, after all. "Yes…you have done nothing but please me through your unflinching obedience, my Daughter. But tell me: how long will you obey?"_

" _When I said 'eternally', my Father, I do indeed mean it," his Daughter said._

 _Miraak then walked in front of her, placed his hands upon her shoulders and pulled her ear to his mouth. "Make me proud, my Daughter. Gol hah dov. You are my arm in Mundus. You are an extension of my will. You acknowledge me as Lord of Apocrypha, as the Lord of all existence."_

" _You, my Father, are Lord of all that exists, Lord of Apocrypha. I am but an extension of your will—your arm in Mundus that will aid in your return," the Daughter said in monotone. "I am the Daughter of Apocrypha. I am the Daughter of Miraak."_

* * *

 **Skyrim, Present Day**

Less than half a kilometer out from Helgen, the Daughter caught glimpse of a sight that gave her pause: a dragon—jet-black, red-eyed—cast a sinister shape against the sky as it flew away from the ruined and burnt town. Though it didn't show in her posture, the Daughter was afraid. She found herself questioning her resolve.

Dragons had been extinct, or so she had read. Well, _mostly_ extinct—her Father's most loyal were dragons that served him within Apocrypha. What was one doing in Mundus? Why did the voice in her mind urge her to come here? Was it to see this? If so, then why?

So many questions flooded her mind, and she had no answer for any of them. She managed to barely make out the dragon hovering over something in the distance before flying off: ruins, she figured. Ancient Nordic Burial Barrows, most likely—Solstheim had them, too.

The scene that was left behind in Helgen was rather grisly, to say the least. It looked like a long line of people were set to be executed; by a headsman, no less. As messy as such an execution was, there was just something about the idea of a beheading that made the Daughter tremble in excitement. Maybe she simply loved seeing bodies—there was nothing wrong with that, now was there?

The scent of death was in the air. She was no necromancer, despite her knowledge on the subject. The dead held no answers for her. Her answer lay in that barrow.

" _Bleak Falls Barrow…"_

There it was again: the fatherly voice, but it didn't come from Father. Yet it soothed her mind all the same.

" _Press on, my child. Your destiny awaits…"_

 _What destiny? Who are you? How do you know me?_

No answer came, leaving the Daughter once more with nothing to do than to attempt to sate her curiosity. She hated not having answers. With answers come knowledge, and knowledge is what she hungered for above all else, save for her purpose. She had no choice but to comply—someone or _something_ wanted her here, and the promise of answers was too alluring to her.

Wordlessly, she moved onwards, ignoring the hand singed to the bone that was reaching out for help before it dropped lifelessly to the ground. She didn't even go in the direction of Riverwood—she just continued north, walking across the stream to the other side, all at the speed of her usual saunter. Her mere presence sent wolves backpedaling in apprehension, and a few of the bandits on a small tower were courteous enough to let her pass _after_ she offered them all a look at her body—yes, even the woman among them.

The ones guarding the barrow outside weren't nearly as courteous, but they _were_ easily dealt with. She relished the look of disbelief the archer had at seeing her unfazed by a shot to the chest, and the agony in his eyes once he noticed that he was impaled on her arm. It sent the other two running in terror.

She carried the archer's body, skewered on her arm, with her into the barrow. The two bandits in the entrance took the hint and wisely decided to let her pass.

"Perhaps you can give your friend rest among the dead of this barrow," the Daughter mocked as she dropped the body before moving further in, finding a fresh body riddled with darts. She effortlessly crushed the skeevers underfoot, and crushed the frostbite spider with the blessings of home. Then the lone Dunmer, tangled in webs, begged for her to release him in spite of what he witnessed.

Trailing her finger along his chin, her honeyed words and promises of riches and power from the Daedra swayed Arvel the Swift to accompany her. So, she released him, and the two ventured further into the barrow, the Daughter not so much as flinching from the greatest of blows. And then, the inevitable puzzle door came.

"To open the way, one must look at the palm of the claw," the Daughter said.

"Yes. I know that," Arvel said. "I was simply marveled at your…utterly impossible capabilities."

"My capabilities are something anyone utterly devoted to the Daedra can receive," she said. "That power interests you, does it not? Like the riches of this barrow, it calls to you."

"It does," Arvel said. "Though I am unsure as to whether you will keep your word."

"As the Daughter of Apocrypha, I am many things. A liar is not one of them."

"Perhaps. We shall see," Arvel said.

As they proceeded through the door, the great wall of Words stood ahead of them. As she stood before the wall, one specific Word stood out to her. She knew not what it said, but the image of what she saw burned into her mind.

"A fine blade indeed," Arvel commented as he looked over the spoils from the dead Draugr. "Fine armor as well. But what is this slab?"

"Perhaps that is the true treasure of this place," the Daughter said. "Though it is made of stone and not gold, whatever knowledge is inscribed on it means trumps any riches that exist. And speaking of riches, I shall reward you for your aid."

Hands outstretched, a pool opened up beneath Arvel. Tendrils slid around his arms and legs, rooting him in position as they started to drag him down.

"What? No! What are you doing!?"

"Rewarding you with a place in Apocrypha…"

"You! Your honeyed words and your promises of riches…they were lies. _All_ of them! And like a fool, I bought into them," Arvel spat when reality dawned on him.

"No. They were not lies. The ultimate riches are not that of gold or gems, but that of knowledge," the Daughter said. "I spoke truth; you simply chose to believe that the riches I spoke of were physical. When you spend the next few centuries within the endless pages of Apocrypha, you shall understand the wisdom of what I offered to you."

Arvel tried to talk back, but a tentacle had wrapped itself around his mouth, silencing him as he disappeared within the pool.

"And with the knowledge within the stacks of Apocrypha, you shall become as powerful as I've promised," the Daughter said as the portal to Apocrypha closed, smirking to herself as she illuminated the truth to a mortal. He'll come around—they all do in the end.

" _Dragonstone…Whiterun…"_ the voice beckoned to her.

 _Answer me! Who are you? What is it you want!?_

But, like before, she received no answer. No answer meant that there was nothing more than what the voice said to go on. And if she was going to Whiterun, she was going to need some clothing, lest she draw _every_ eye in the entire hold.


	5. Chapter 4: Names

**A/N: And we're back with another Chapter. Semester's coming to a close, but I can't get complacent. The whole program is going to take at least three semesters, so this may all take a while.**

 **Read and Review, lest you find yourselves trapped in Apocrypha's stacks forever.**

 **The Daughter of Apocrypha being who she is, I shouldn't need to remind you to be wary of fetish fuel. Don't like, don't read.  
**

* * *

She came across a cabin in the woods, inhabited by one single old woman. She took one look at the Daughter's apparently disheveled appearance and feigned concern. The Daughter knew it was fake; she _knew_ the old woman for what she was: a witch. It was a play to lure a frightened young woman in order to use her for nefarious crafts.

All that changed when the Daughter placed her hand on the witch's shoulder and called attention to that knowledge. The witch was initially determined to kill her to maintain her secrecy, but her determination was dashed by the Daughter's next words.

"You can feel it from me, can you not? The power inherent in your blood allows you to feel the power that streams off my body: the power of the Daedra. This is the power you and your coven want, along with knowledge, is it not?"

"What do you know of knowledge, Daedra?" the witch said. "That is, if you truly are Daedra."

"I am Daedra; I once was a mere woman ascended from mortality for my service. I am the sole daughter of a Daedric Prince, a denizen of a plain of Oblivion: the plain called Apocrypha," the Daughter said proudly, lifting her eyes to meet the witch's.

"You serve Hermaeus Mora?"

"Hermaeus Mora? Though many texts say otherwise, that being 'tis naught but a myth perpetuated by mortal minds—a false name for the _true_ Daedric Prince of Knowledge. No, my Father is one named Miraak; he is naught but truth itself. He gifts his knowledge and his blessing to his most loyal of servants," the Daughter said. "He who is my Father shall listen to my words, and shall reward you well should you aid me this once, witch."

"What is this bargain that you want, Daedra?" the witch asked.

"First, I desire to observe formality; what is your name, witch?"

"I am Anise, of a coven of witches from the Reach," the witch said.

"Ah, dear sweet Anise…" the Daughter said, taking Anise's hand in her own as she caressed her face with her remaining hand. "All I require is your home, your belongings, your name for myself—names are meaningless with the knowledge that shall surround you within Apocrypha."

Anise looked down at her hand when the Daedric woman released it, finding it covered in ink. It slid off her and, to her amazement, revealed the very same skin she had in her youth. She touched her face where the woman's hand had been—it was youth-taught, like she really _was_ a young woman again.

"This is…how…?" Anise looked at herself in wonder.

"Tis but the _least_ of rewards that shall be given for your service, should you decide to go through with this bargain," the Daughter said as Anise saw her own skin start to wrinkle again from her age ever so slightly. "But…"

"Be forewarned, Anise. Though I have given several the privilege of wandering the stacks that hold knowledge within Apocrypha, not all have had the mental capacity with which to grasp that knowledge and the power that accompanies it," the Daughter said. "Should you lack the acuity required, you may become lost in the stacks forever, driven to madness. Do you understand the dangers?"

Anise nodded. "I do, and I shall go through with this bargain, Daedra."

"A most brave decision…" the Daughter trailed, a smirk playing across her face.

An endless life without the hassle of witchcraft…the thought sent a chill of intrigue through Anise's spine. She felt her robes being unfastened and her body being embraced, but she made no effort to resist.

When she had been released from the embrace given to her, Anise looked to the Daughter's completely bare body, then looked down at her own to see herself covered in the very same ink that had covered the woman before her mere seconds ago. It then slid off, revealing youthful skin and coming to rest on the ground.

The ink under Anise formed a pool that she began to sink into. Though apprehension gripped her momentarily, Anise looked the Daedric woman in the eye while sporting a smirk on her own face. Her soul felt warm, and she felt like she was being baptized in the waters of Apocrypha itself.

"Worry not; I shall make good use of your name, and your coven shall know of your fate…someday," the Daughter said. "They shall join you, should they so desire. If they do not, it would be best that you eradicate any attachments you may have to them."

As Anise finished sinking into the portal to Apocrypha, the Daughter took the clothing left behind and laid it over her bare skin. She cared little for modesty, so her fashion sense was lacking, but there was one thing she knew for sure: blue and beige did _not_ look good on her.

* * *

"Halt!" the guard at the gate said. "The city is closed due to the recent dragon attack at Helgen. Official business only."

"Such is why I am here," the Daughter said. "I saw that dragon depart from Helgen. 'Twas coming this way after passing over Riverwood; the Jarl needs to be informed of this."

"If Riverwood is in danger, too, you'd best go in and see the Jarl at Dragonsreach," the gate guard said. "It's the large palace at the top of the hill, in the Cloud District. You'll know it when you see it."

"Thank you," the Daughter said. "You do your job quite well, gate guard. Keep at it."

Even robed and hooded, with her face obscure, the occasional double-take occurred as she walked through Whiterun's streets. She was a stranger, after all—it wasn't difficult to draw eyes when you were new in town. Focusing on the large palace got her mind off of the eyes that were doubtlessly following her.

A woman approached her in the main hall: she was a Dunmer, lightly armored, and brandishing a sword of steel.

"What is the meaning of this? The Jarl is not accepting visitors at this time," she said sternly.

"Calm down, Dunmer. I merely come with news regarding the recent dragon attack at Helgen," the Daughter. "If you would politely sheath your blade, I can explain what I saw."

"I _beg your pardon_?" the Dunmer asked. "I guard the Jarl with my life. I'll put my blade up when I'm convinced that you will not pose a threat to Jarl Balgruuf."

"If your concern is over the war, then I am not interested in Skyrim's politics," the Daughter sighed. "What I _am_ interested in is the dragon I saw flying from Helgen and over Bleak Falls Barrow, as well as learning more about this item I came across: this…Dragonstone."

The Daughter pulled out the stone slab. "The Jarl must know about the attack, and the court wizard may be interested in studying this."

"Very well, but I've got my eye on you," the Dunmer woman said as she sheathed her blade.

 _Even the sharpest eye would not be able to see the swift death I can offer until it is too late, mortal. How fortunate for you that I've no interest in doing so._

The Dunmer led the Daughter to the Jarl's throne. The man was bearded and imposing, but the look in his eyes showed benevolence. But then, it mattered little to the Daughter.

"Now then, Irileth. Who is this?" he asked.

"I am Anise, my Jarl," the Daughter said. "I came here as soon as I could after I witnessed the dragon leave Helgen. It burned the town to the ground and, last I saw, 'twas hovering over Bleak Falls Barrow before flying this way."

"Irileth, if what this woman says is true, Riverwood is in the most immediate danger of an attack," Jarl Balgruuf said. "Send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl," Irileth said.

"Now, was there anything else you needed?" the Jarl asked as he returned to face the Daughter.

"Yes, my Jarl. The dragon hovered over Bleak Falls Barrow briefly. By chance, I had already been there and have recovered something most unusual: a stone slab with something inscribed on it," the Daughter said. "I am sure there is a connection to the dragons' return, so I brought it with me. I wish to consult with your court wizard about this finding."

"Farengar?" the Jarl asked. "Funny that you should mention that. He had been requesting without pause that someone go to Bleak Falls Barrow and retrieve something important from there, but we simply didn't have the manpower to send anyone. Come. He will want to see what you've brought."


	6. Chapter 5: Dragon Rising

**A/N: Finals week is here with all it implies. So, I'm going to release this one.**

 **As usual, read and review, lest the Daughter finds a use for you in Apocrypha.**

 **As is the norm with the Daughter of Apocrypha, potential fetish fuel ahead. I lampshade it, too.**

* * *

Farengar Secret-Fire knew something was off about the woman the minute he lay eyes on her. Perhaps it was the paranoia that came with the war, perhaps it was his scholarly insight, or perhaps it was the intuition that came with being a mage. She felt wrong, stilted, her speech was quaint, and it all sent a shiver through his body.

But he had nothing save for this sense of foreboding to go on, so there was little he could do about it.

"Farengar, this woman…this…Anise has something for you," his Jarl said. "Go on, traveler. Show him what you've brought."

Anise pulled from her pack a rather large slab of stone. It looked rather heavy, as if her small frame should not be able to hold it up. She set the slab down gently at his table, and trailed her fingers gently over the surface.

"Twould appear to be a map, at first viewing," Anise said. "Perhaps 'tis a map of Skyrim itself, but I do not know what it details. I take pride in my intellect, but I feel it necessary to have a second opinion. Perhaps you would be willing to aid me with this?"

"You have the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow, then? I admit, I've been eager to get this," Farengar said. "Very well; if you desire aid in deciphering this artifact, then I shall help."

The next hour went on without incident. The woman was as well-read as she claimed herself to be—already, she had figured out one part of the map: Kynesgrove. It was well known that there was a burial mound of a sort east of the small settlement's inn. If Anise's intuition was correct, then a dragon was buried under it.

"The Jarl mentioned you saw the dragon than burned Helgen to the ground. What did it look like?" Farengar asked.

"This dragon, what did it look like?" the Jarl asked.

"Twas jet black, darker than Ebony ore, eyes redder than ruby. I believe it very well may be _him_. 'Tis the World Eater himself."

"Divines. If that's true, I'm not sure how any of this can help," Farengar said.

"If nothing else, 'twould prove there is a connection," Anise said as she continued to eye the stone.

"I suppose, and if legends are true, then…"

"This could signal the awakening of one who is Dragonborn," she finished for him.

"Correct, umm…"

"Is there an issue?" Anise asked.

"Your mannerisms are rather antiquated, if you don't mind me saying," Farengar said. "It's surprising to see someone so young speak like the way you do. Speech like that hasn't been used in millennia."

"Has it not?" Anise said. "Tis preference, how I talk."

No, it was more than preference, Farengar figured. There was a certain look in her eyes that was off-putting, like they carried in them more wisdom than could be obtained in even an elf's lifetime. The golden color of her eyes was enough to be unnerving, in fact.

That's when he noticed her dragging her fingers across a sheet of paper, copying the contents of the stone on it. The closest quill and ink pot wasn't even on the table. Wait…was that ink coming from her _fingers_?

"Is there something wrong with-?" he started before she turned her face to him. Her golden eyes practically glowed from beneath her hood. She extended her arm towards him, two ink-covered fingers pointing right at him and closing in on his eyes.

Her fingers stopped mere millimeters away from touching his eyes. And perhaps he was seeing things, but the ink seemed to be inching even closer to them, rendering his world completely black.

"There is _nothing_ wrong with me…mortal," Anise said, a dark and demonic undertone under her voice and he could practically sense her smirking. "Now, you _will_ forget what you have just heard."

Her eyes glowed brightly through the blackness of his vision, holding his gaze.

What were they talking about, again? He forgot. When he blinked, he saw a finished copy of the map from the Dragonstone drawn on a piece of paper, the quill and ink pot nearby.

"I believe I have it figured out," Anise said, breaking Farengar's thoughts. "Tis indeed a map of Skyrim, but look. The burial mound close to Kynesgrove…it may be housing a dragon."

"How can you know?" Farengar asked.

"I do not, but my intuition tells me it cannot be anything else," she replied.

"Looks to me that you really didn't need me, after all," Farengar said.

"I enjoyed the company regardless…"

For whatever reason, Farengar blushed at the compliment.

"Farengar!"

* * *

Irileth stood before the two of them, having obviously ran to reach them both, despite not being in least bit out of breath. For a mortal, she had surprising vitality. Then again, she was an elf.

"You need to come at once, both of you. A dragon's been sighted near the western watchtower," Irileth stated. "The Jarl is waiting for us to continue."

"A dragon? How exciting!" Farengar exclaimed, his enthusiasm a rather entertaining sight for the Daughter. "What was it doing?"

"Just circling, from what the guard said. I'd take this more seriously, if I were you," Irileth said. "I'm not sure we can stop a dragon if it decides to attack."

The Daughter followed them both up the stairs to a planning room. She knew it was due to the war—a big map was in the center table with blue and red flags at various points.

"…don't know. It could be attacking right now. I couldn't get a good look, because I ran," she heard someone say.

"I understand," the Jarl said. "Go to the barracks for some food and rest. I'm sending help."

"My Jarl," Irileth cut in.

"Perfect timing, Irileth," Balgruuf said. "Take the best men you can muster to the western watchtower. I need to know what we're dealing with."

"Yes, my Jarl."

"My Jarl, I should go with," Farengar said. "I would very much like to see this dragon."

"I can't afford to risk you both," the Jarl shook his head. "I need you back here working on ways to defend the city against further attacks. And as for you, Anise…you accompany Irileth."

"You…want a recluse's aid?" the Daughter said, legitimate confusion coloring her voice.

"You saw the dragon leave Helgen, and you brought the Dragonstone, _and_ you seemed to know that there was a connection. The fact is, you're the _most_ experienced in this room where the dragons are concerned," Balgruuf said. "I've got good instincts, and you have the look of hidden strength within you. Will you aid Whiterun, Anise?"

"Hmm," the Daughter muttered. "You, guardsman. This dragon, did you see what it looked like?"

"Ah, not really," the guard said. "Its hide was gray. That's all I could make out."

"Tis different from the one that razed Helgen, then," the Daughter said, nodding. "Which means we have a chance at victory. Very well, my Jarl. I will aid you."

"Good," Jarl Balgruuf said. "Use whatever means at your disposal to deal with this beast."

"Try not to get yourself killed, mage," Irileth said.

"Do not worry," the Daughter said. "Dying is not on my agenda. Worry for yourself and your men."

* * *

 **Western Watchtower**

"He was definitely here," Irileth said as she looked at the ruins of the tower in the distance. "But the tower itself is still standing. So, where did he go? It seems too quiet."

"Perhaps it is waiting for more people to come—more meat to eat at once. Its stomach must be monumental," the Daughter said, a slight grin on her face as lightning materialized in her hand. It was little beyond subtlety; if she wanted to unleash her full might, she could do so and not leave a single survivor.

"That's a chilling picture to imagine: a dragon having a feast with all our bodies," one of the men said. "It's going to roast us on an open fire, first."

"Mage, I don't appreciate you saying things that hurt the morale of my men," Irileth said, making eye contact.

"I merely wished to add some dark levity to the situation," the Daughter said. "Pity my effort has fallen flat."

"Let's head out and search of survivors, men," Irileth said as she sighed in exasperation at the Daughter's cracks. "Don't let your guard down."

Soon after they spread out to search through burning wood and collapsed stone, there was a yell of protest came from within the tower. A lone guard emerged, the clothing that went over his armor in tatters and with his helmet missing. His grimy face, parts crusted with dried blood, carried a panicked expression.

"No! You have to get out of here!" he yelled. "I'm all that's left! It's still somewhere around—the others got grabbed when they tried to run."

"Guardsman! Where is the dragon?" Irileth said.

"Somewhere! I don't know where!"

"I think I do," the Daughter said, extending her hand, firing lightning in the sky. The dragon practically burst into view from the half-moon in the night, in the process of preparing for a dive toward all of them.

"By Kynareth…find cover!" Irileth said.

The Daughter's heart leapt in anticipation as she stood and stared down the dragon that was rapidly closing the distance. She smirked in a most psychotic fashion. To clash against immortal beings such as dragons…she didn't know why, but the Daughter shivered in delight at the idea.

" _Yol Tor Shul!"_

Fire came from the dragon's maw, engulfing the Daughter's body, ending the shiver of delight, knocking her to the ground, and awakening her hunger for conflict. As she lifted herself to her knees, the charred remains of her robe scattered to the wind. No points for guessing what that meant.

No amount of clothing stayed on her for very long—it was a fact of her existence.

The Daughter was heaving black ink from her lips, more than one should have any right to fit, but then she stood like nothing went wrong. She smiled as was she embraced by her Father's blessings once more. Subtlety was gone, but the promise of exquisite conflict was enough for the Daughter to justify the loss.

"Come, dragon," the Daughter said, her distorted giggle haunting, even to her new foe. "Let us see how the bringers of the end times fare against a daughter of the Daedra!"

" _Deyrazaam,"_ the dragon spoke. _"Stin Zeim Dinok. Stin Nol Zaamhus."_

* * *

 **A/N: About the last line: has a lot of neat little dragon words that I used for source.  
**

 **Deyra: "Daedra" or "Daedric"**

 **Zaam:** **"Slave"**

 **Together, they can be interpreted as "Daedric Slave" or "Slave to the Daedra".**

 **Stin: "Freedom"**

 **Zeim: "Through"**

 **Dinok: "Death"**

 **Hence: "Freedom though death."**

 **Nol: "From"**

 **Zaamhus: "Slavery".**

 **Altogether: "Freedom from death. Freedom from slavery." In this case, used as an expression of pity.**


	7. Chapter 6: Tis Simply Impossible

**A/N: This one came to my mind rather quickly, so I'm posting it out early. Enjoy!**

 **As per usual, given the nature of the Daughter of Apocrypha, be wary of Fetish Fuel.**

 **Read and Review, lest she decide that you would be better off lost in Apocrypha's stacks forever.**

* * *

"Bloody idiot," Irileth muttered to herself as she witnessed Anise being engulfed by fire.

Anise was a mage who talked big, yet froze up when put in real danger. In fact, that didn't sound all that different from one very specific court wizard. Even then, Farengar was far too smart to simply stand in place for too long like that.

The fire cleared up and Irileth expected to see a charred husk surrounded by ash. There was ash, all right, but no husk. Anise lay there and forced herself up to a kneeling position.

Anise was intact, her skin and jet-black hair flawless. And she was stark naked. And she seemed to stun everyone who looked at her with her siren-like beauty, even the dragon. Irileth suppressed a blush at seeing this.

Disgust colored the emotions of everyone when she heaved. But what came from her mouth was not vomit, but ink, and it seemed to take on a life of its own. It scaled her as she pushed herself up from the ground.

Within the span of a minute and a half, Irileth had been frustrated, shocked and embarrassed, disgusted, and now shocked again. And the men seemed almost horrified at what they saw, and yet intrigued.

Men…always thinking _below_ their waistlines.

"Come, dragon," Irileth heard a duo of voices speak, the following giggle a haunting sound. "Let us see how the bringers of the end times fare against a daughter of the Daedra!"

Daedra? This entire time, this so-called "Anise" was Daedra?

The dragon spoke something. No one understood what it meant; not even the Daedric woman, it seemed. And she seemed to acknowledge this.

"I may not understand what you are saying, but I shall when I tear the very knowledge from your mind," Anise said. "And I shall make your knowledge an offering to my Father. But enough talk; to battle!"

The dragon did as it was invited, making for a headlong dive to snatch Anise in its maw of sharp fangs. Of all possible moves she could have made, Anise chose a backwards handspring to evade with, countering with a kick to the underside. And it staggered the beast mid-fight, to everyone's amazement.

The woman was trouble, but she was the trouble they needed at this moment.

"Let's not look gift horse in the mouth for the moment, men," Irileth commanded. "Make every arrow count!"

If Anise—or whoever she was—really would become a danger, then at least they could allow her to take the brunt of the dragon's assault. That way, she'd at least be worn down if she tried to turn on them. But if she was Daedra…

Anise landed right in front of Irileth from her latest evasive action.

"Try not to get yourself killed, Dunmer," Anise said with a hint of irony in her voices (yes, plural), in obvious reference to their exchange back at Dragonsreach.

* * *

The Daughter found herself experiencing an unprecedented feeling of exhilaration with the beginning of this battle. The rush of battle…the thrill of putting her temporal body at risk of death…it all flushed fire through her limbs. No longer did she move with the stiffness of a marionette, but with the grace of a dancer.

Dragons…they were immortal beings that carried knowledge unknown to even the wisest of mortals. Some may have even carried knowledge that were lost upon the Daedra—such knowledge was precious power. The Daughter would make that power an offering unto Father, to hasten his freedom.

She would thrust her arm straight through the dragon's skull if that was what it took. Oh, she just _had_ to impale it at least once in this battle.

 _A dragon's head skewered upon my arm…what an exquisite image._

A dragon skull suspended in her domain in Apocrypha would make for an excellent decoration.

When the dragon came for another dive, it went right into the firing line being formed by the archers. The sheer volley of arrows forced it to pull up early to avoid a lucky shot, despite the very light penetration of the other hits.

Putting an unearthly amount of power into her legs, the Daughter catapulted herself into the air, punching the dragon's underside with force just shy of a god, sending it staggering and diving away in an attempt to land away from her.

She landed softly on all fours before putting all her strength into her legs, rushing like to wind itself to intercept it as it landed. But the Daughter was a bit off—inertia made her run past just before the dragon landed. And it was well aware of this, because it began to hobble back towards the watchtower.

The Daughter turned on her heel and waited for it…the dragon started to pick up speed, preparing to take to the skies again. She gathered her power and then she bolted. As the dragon jumped, so did she. She landed on top of the dragon's neck, being carried into the air with it.

It knew…it knew she latched on, and it made every attempt to get her off. Stall turns, mid-air rolls…nothing seemed to work. The Daughter just hung on, clawing her way toward the dragon's head, ultimately reaching the right eye.

They stared at each other, both too high in the sky for the arrows to have much effect. It seemed like it would be an eternity until one of them broke eye contact. But the Daughter was not going to be the one to break it.

The Daughter grinned wickedly, ink trailing out of her mouth, and then offered the dragon her "breath of Apocrypha". The corrosive ink went right into its eye, blinding it, sending it roaring in pain, unable to focus on keeping airborne. This sent them both plummeting to the ground, and the Daughter was crushed in the process, her body exploding in ink…

…

… …

… … …

She wasn't dead though. By definition, immortals could not be killed—not permanently, at least. She thrashed about in her pool in Apocrypha, as her body was rebuilt in the ink and sent back to be re-materialized on Nirn.

Sure, she couldn't die permanently, but it was a pace-breaker nonetheless. She re-formed from the ink in what seemed to the casual observer to be instantly. The guards didn't even seem to notice her temporary "death".

"Tis blind in the right eye, mortals," the Daughter said. "I would take my chance at the fun, if I were all of you."

Arrows were being shot, swords were being drawn, and the ink had done its job. A writhing mass of tentacles were emerging from the dragon's right eye socket, and the area around was eaten down to the bone. And it was still going, too; the Daughter could still make out the acrid smell from where she stood.

"It's going to take off again!" Irileth yelled.

"It will not succeed!" the Daughter exclaimed, thrusting her hands skyward.

Several inky portals opened up from the ground. Tentacles emerged from them to catch the gravely injured dragon as it jumped and flapped its wings, pulling it back down with earth-shaking force. The dragon thrashed around in futility, only managing to turn its head to look at the Daughter it its only remaining eye.

Smirking and licking her lips sensually, the Daughter chose to finish it off. Bolting forward faster than the eye could track, she stiffened her fingers, pulled her arm back, and sent it right through the dragon's eye. She was shoulder deep, having pierced the brain.

But the death wasn't instant, so the Daughter proceeded to pull her arm out, and thrust in with the other—she pulled that out and repeated: left, right, left, right, panting erotically each time, a pleased giggle working its way into her voice.

When the thrashing stopped and the dragon died for good, the Daughter moaned, arm still buried in the dragon's ruined eye. The battle and the kill were orgasmic in feel, belittling the greatest sex she ever had, even back when she was mortal. She was still breathing heavily in the afterglow when the thunderous sound hit.

The dragon seemed to catch fire and she withdrew her hand. The Daughter tried to backpedal, but she felt like something was holding her in place. The dragon was burning away, leaving behind a skeleton, and the fire subsequently engulfed her. Her arms were out to her sides as her body seized up.

She seen this happen before when her Father punished one of his own dragon servants…

 _No…I cannot be…tis simply impossible…_

Power overwhelming rushed through her body as the fire settled down. The Daughter felt her lungs contract and her hands clench into fists. And then, the proof that she couldn't deny emerged.

"FUS!" both of her voices cried out towards the watchtower, the sheer force collapsing what remained of the doorway to the inside.

The Daughter witnessed the results, looked down at her hands in genuine horror, overcome with the reality of the situation. She hugged herself tightly in sorrow as she fell to her knees.

 _But Father, you—and_ _ **only**_ _you—are supposed to be…_

Dragonborn!

* * *

 **A/N: Dun dun dunnnnnn! What ever may be the implications of this revelation? Keep watch of this story to find out.  
**


	8. Chapter 7: An Affront to Father

**A/N: After over a year, I updated one of my main projects again: "Of Legends". Anyways, another semester is on the way on January 17: a seventeen credit-hour semester. No clue how much time I am going to get to write some more.**

 **Anyways, enjoy. Read and review, lest you wander Apocrypha for all eternity.**

 **And as always, potential for fetish fuel is par for the course in this story. You have been warned.**

* * *

The Daughter continued to rock herself back and forth, still hugging herself tightly. Though the guards and Irileth surrounded her warily from a distance, bows and arrows all aimed at her, she paid them no mind. Yet she could hear every one of them talk.

"Men, if she makes any sudden moves, shoot her," Irileth said.

"She's Daedra?"

"You saw what she did. She's a monster!"

"She…took its very soul!"

"She's Dragonborn!"

 _Father, why me?_ _You alone are supposed to be the Dragonborn. You have always been the_ _ **true**_ _Dragonborn. If I have always been Dragonborn without knowing it, then what does that mean?_

What it meant was that her very existence is a betrayal to her Father. She was an effrontery to his magnificence. Her existence was an insult to his perfection.

There can only be one Dragonborn. She wanted to end herself, to redeem herself in his eyes. But she lacked any ability to die. Even if she were to plunge her own hand through her chest right now, she would just be recreated in her pocket of Apocrypha.

And even though it went against her desire to please her Father, she felt an instinctive drive to survive, to endure whatever came her way, even if it were despair. Was it the instinct of a dragon that spurred this feeling, or was it the instinct of a mortal?

The Daughter was immortal, yet still suffered mortal emotions. It allowed her to feel pleasure…pleasure in killing, pleasure that she had been making Father proud. But with them came the despair she was feeling this instant.

"What are you?" Irileth called out to her.

Eliminating any shakiness that would have bled into her voice, the Daughter called back. "I am a Daedra of Apocrypha, mortal. My interest was in the dragon. I have no desire whatsoever to intervene with your kind's interest in destroying itself. I wish to be left to think. Come any closer, and I shall run my arm through each and every one of you!"

She was more than capable of doing so, and the guards knew it. They were wise to keep their distance. Still, they kept their arrows trained on her. They knew it was suicide to try and take her, but they were Nords—it was in their very blood to try.

"Perhaps you have interest in the war, and perhaps you don't," Irileth stated. "You have our thanks for the assistance with the dragon, but we won't stop surrounding you until you agree to leave the area. Pull any deception, and we will be forced to defend Whitrun with our lives."

"If you wish for me to leave, mortal, then I shall do so," the Daughter said, allowing her arms to dangle limply at her side as she stood.

"Men, stand aside. But keep your aim on her," Irileth ordered.

The Daughter walked, her marionette gait returning with each step. She paid no mind to the arrows trained on her, still locked in thought. She was almost out of earshot when she heard the stonework of the watchtower begin to give way and then she turned to see it tip over and collapse upon everyone near it.

All witnesses to her power perished beneath the stone: the elf, the Nords…all of them. She couldn't suppress a sly smirk.

It didn't matter to her, though: questions were still reeling in her mind. What should she do? Could she even return to Solstheim and face Father?

 _Perhaps if I beg for forgiveness, Father will be merciful. Or perhaps he shall give me new purpose? Perhaps he may take my soul from me? If that is his will, then I shall submit to his superior power._

" _No! You, child, shall beg to no one but me! Follow my voice! Pursue your destiny! Pursue your birthright as Dragonborn!"_

" _Who are you, that you keep commanding me!"_ the Daughter screamed in her mind. _"I respond to no will but Father's!"_

" _You Father, is he?"_ the voice questioned. _"Or are you so weak that you fell victim to his Voice? To the very Voice that he spoke to Solstheim through your lips—the very Words that drive others to do his bidding. Are you so weak that you do not see the truth?"_

" _He is naught but true itself!"_ she said back. _"He would_ _ **never**_ _lie to-!"_

The earth shook under her feet. An earthquake? No, it couldn't be: Whiterun Hold didn't suffer quakes like that—not like the Reach did. Thunder could be heard. No…not thunder. Voices cried through the air—five of them.

"DOVAHKIIN!" they all cried in unison.

" _You hear them, do you not?"_ the voice that had been speaking to her said. _"The Greybeards have heard your Voice from High Hrothgar. They call you to them. Go to them—pursue your birthright. Miraak shall never accept you back…but I shall, if you go forward. Now go, my Daughter, and pursue your birthright!"_

The Daughter did not know what to do—there were two beings with interest in her: Father and one other. No…if Miraak was not in fact Father, then who was he?

She felt something in her mind, like a hand with a vise-like grip over her consciousness, loosen up slightly. What was this feeling? What was it that gripped her mind? Why did she have a desire to proceed onward as the voice said?

What was truth and what was falsehood now?

She had to keep moving, even if it was for the sole purpose of finding out which was which.

She had her destination: High Hrothgar.

* * *

 **Three Days Later**

 **Outside High Hrothgar**

The approach was quiet, the animals and trolls having given her a wide berth, as she tirelessly made the climb through the snowfall that had covered up the Seven Thousand Steps, ensuring that every step she took was knee-deep. She paid no mind to the many flakes of snow that were settling on her bare skin, her body itself not even giving a reaction—not even mere goosebumps.

Any mortal as unclad as she was would have suffered frostbite twenty times over. But then, the Daughter of Apocrypha _wasn't_ mortal. She remembered the feel of snow on her skin and the bite of cold from her mortal years, but now its bite meant nothing. She was scalded almost completely down to the bone right before she was reborn, but now the flame's tongue left no lasting harm to her mind or body.

Climbing these steps was considered an act of great spiritual significance to the Nords. It was claimed that men were created by Kyne upon this very mountain when the sky breathed on this land. Even in her mortal years, the Daughter had always found this belief to be nonsense. Perhaps it was her upbringing on Solstheim that had shaped her initial view, before Father—or whoever _was_ her actual Father—found her and enlightened her.

The Daughter's train of thought was broken when she saw the monastery before her, standing solid despite the obvious wear on the stonework surface. The Battle of Red Mountain was something she only read about in the older tomes from her home; the original First Era battle saw Jurgen Windcaller and those under his command defeated by the alliance between the Chimer and the Dwemer. Jurgen, himself a user of the Thu'um, soon after committed to pacifism and built this monastery.

The Greybeards who made their home here followed his teachings, and they carried more knowledge of the Thu'um than any mortal should have a right to. Of course, that meant that they alone could help the Daughter find why she was Dragonborn.

She placed her hand against one of the doors and pushed it open, and could feel the dull sensation of heat escaping from within. She stepped through, the area lit by both a skylight and several braziers.

There, in front of her, as if expecting her, were four elderly men clad in hooded robes. They could feel the aura she gave off, as if knowing she was Daedra, but seemed unperturbed by this as well as her unclothed state.

"So, it would appear that a Dragonborn, whoever or whatever she may be, has come before us. I am Arngeir, speaker for the Greybeards," one of them said. "Tell me: why is it you're here?"

"Greybeards…followers of the Way of the Voice," the Daughter started, noting that not even her voice startled them. "I come seeking answers: why am I Dragonborn? What does it mean? What does this say about my future?"

"Patience," Arngeir said. "First, let us see if you truly have the gift. Come, Dragonborn; let us taste of your voice."

They…they wanted her to Shout at them? She remembered when she first used her Shout mere days back: perhaps it was her nature as Daedra, but she had the feeling that her Shout shouldn't have been as destructive as it was. Her dual voice had come forward collapsing a _part_ of the watchtower and, soon after, the watchtower _as a whole_ gave way.

"Is that your wish?" the Daughter asked. "I saw the destructive power behind my voices. I could easily slay you with the word."

"Your Voice is untamed, but ours are," Arngeir said. "We shall endure. Now, Shout at us."

Well, she _did_ warn them…

The Daughter inhaled deeply and let the Word loose.

" _FUS!_ "


End file.
